“What is it, doctor?” Jacob asked softly, but Elisha shook his head.
Kill a man—torture him first, create for him a death so terrible that the Valley of the Shadow howled its victory. Invite friends to share in the power of that death—all the mancers who could come, as they came when the Archbishop of Canterbury slew Rosalynn, as they came to share in Brigit’s attempt to kill the nobility of England. She had conjured her mother’s death in the memory of all those who had been present and made contact through a field sown with blood, building up to a final slaying that would kill every desolati in her audience. As the mancers would have come when Thomas was slain, his skin ripped from his body. Why? So they could spread talismans of those deaths and open the Valley anywhere the talismans might be, concealed in the open as the relics of saints. They might carry the relics themselves to specific churches, or simply allow believers like Gilles to extend their web. They could seed the world with sorrow, with the knowledge of those murders and contact forged in anguish. They came from nothing, with cursed knives, Simeon had said, and if they spread their talismans far enough, the Valley would take them wherever they pleased, emerging from churches, altars, crosses, to wreak what havoc they would. Elisha sought to find the mancers, but he sought in vain. If he were right, they could be anywhere in an instant, wielding a power that he alone recognized.
“Holy Mary, mother of God,” Elisha whispered. Then he looked up, meeting Baldwin’s curious stare. “They’re manufacturing talismans, relics they can use to travel anywhere, to hurt people, as they have hurt Simeon.”
“Manufactured relics?” The archbishop snorted. “Relics cannot be so easily distributed as that—they must come with certificates and miracles. Bones of the saints cannot be translated to another place unless the saint’s will is to go.” He spread his hands. “Relics are not merely beads in a market, doctor.”
Beads in a market—no, flesh on a butcher’s hook. “They would have made of Simeon another martyr, Your Grace, and spread his remains everywhere they wanted to go. The relics would act as a doorway to them, to use their magic wherever they will.”
“Have you any proof of your claims? I have seen no evidence of magic aside from your own deeds, and I must weigh the rescue of Simeon against the expulsion of Brother Henry.” The archbishop rose. “You speak nonsense and blasphemy.”
Even this worthy man would not believe him. He had seen evidence aplenty, but only another witch would understand it. Elisha squeezed his eyes shut. The crown of thorns they forced Simeon to wear had torn Elisha’s cheek and it burned like fire. He felt certain he had uncovered a part of the mancers’ plan, but the archbishop was right—it still took time, patience, and even paperwork to insinuate relics across the nation. There must be more to the mancers’ plot than simply forging a network for travel, though God knew that alone could be terrible.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but you must go,” Jacob said firmly.
With a rustle of silk, Archbishop Baldwin moved toward the door. “I fear I must tell you that I have already placed soldiers around this house, along the streets.”
“You promised us an hour! This is a good man, Your Grace. The best of men—”
“Your son’s return is certainly a good thing. However, I have witnessed strange events this day, and I will have them explained. Charles is threatened, and our peace along with him. I have made oaths to God, to the Holy Father, and to the emperor. A man who speaks as wildly of heresy as this one cannot simply be allowed to rest.”
Their words washed over Elisha without touching his despair. He, too, had made an oath, sworn upon the flesh of a crucified man, that he would stop the mancers. Had he meant it only for the night? Only for that one man? And when the Valley of the Shadow opened in churches, for children, for desolati innocents, for Thomas and his daughter?
“I have taken advantage of your welcome, Jacob,” the archbishop said, “and for that, you must forgive me. I pray you shall not allow it to stand between us. We are the men who keep this city at peace—let us not forget that, even in the face of these difficult events.”
The silence weighed down, pressing at the scars in his skull.
“Yes, Your Grace. As ever, you speak wisdom.” Jacob shifted his stance. “But I will ask you, for my sake, to keep this promise. Your men wait outside, they wait at my every door and window. Let me have the minutes that remain.”
Minutes. If they had not washed the floor in the church, Elisha could go to Simeon and make contact. He could drag himself back through the Valley at least as far away as the church—and then what? He might have allies at Heidelberg—and he wasn’t even sure how to escape Trier.
“Very well, Jacob. Such as they are, they are my gift to you.” Silk rustled as the archbishop walked to the door, then the outside door swung open and shut, and Archbishop Baldwin murmured to someone outside, but moved no further.
“Come!” Jacob whispered fiercely, tugging Elisha to his feet.
Elisha shook his head dumbly. “Where is there to go?”
“Just come, and quietly.” He pulled his arm through Elisha’s, their heads close together. “You’ll emerge two blocks away. It’s not far—not nearly far enough. Go with speed to the southeast corner of the city, to the ancient gate there. It’s not a gate, it was something else—it doesn’t matter. There are three curves to the front of the building—” As he spoke, he pulled Elisha along the hall, turning quickly to a narrow stair that led downward into a vaulted room full of casks and crates with herbs and baskets hung from the ceiling. They ducked beneath them, Jacob now propelling Elisha from behind, his hands lightly at Elisha’s shoulders.
“—go to the one at the center, and there is a grate. It’s iron, it’s loose. Go through it. Don’t take the first turning to the left, take the second one. It leads outside the walls.” Jacob came forward, felt around in the dim light, and tugged on a peg in one of the beams. The section with the beam groaned open. Jacob retrieved the lantern by the stair and held it up to reveal a small stone chamber with steps leading down into a pool of water. In the lantern’s light, Jacob’s face looked craggy, his thick eyebrows shielding too much. “Don’t touch the water. Please. It’s been purified.”
“I understand,” Elisha murmured. Few could be as impure as he. His reflection in the pool rippled with shadows.
Jacob gripped his shoulder briefly. “No, I don’t believe you do. But there is no time.” Handing the lantern to Elisha he pulled a few pages from his sleeve. “A map. It’s not good, not detailed, but it should get you to Heidelberg.” He opened it and indicated Trier, then moved his hand slowly to Heidelberg to be sure Elisha knew the name.
“And this . . .” Jacob stared down at the folded note, tapped it on his hand, then held it out as well. “If you should again need help from a Jew, show him this. It might help.”
Elisha accepted the documents, still bewildered. “Jacob . . . thank you.”
“For what you have done tonight, there are no words. If my talking to the archbishop has brought more trouble for you, then I am deeply sorry.”
“Won’t this bring trouble for you?”
Jacob shrugged. “I will be upstairs when he returns. I will tell him you have vanished. He saw that happen to the monk earlier; he will be angry but not surprised.” He pointed across the water. “You can walk along this edge, carefully. And that door leads to a tunnel beneath several houses. Go quietly.” He searched Elisha’s face, nodded once, then stepped back through the concealed door and closed it softly between them.
Elisha took a moment to look at the map, tucked both pages into his water-safe packet and edged his way around the pool. It was just large enough for a person to lie down, and steps led into it. The tunnel beyond was narrow and low; he walked in a stoop, finding two more doors into the passage before reaching one at the end. It emerged into a culvert with bushes edging a field behind some houses. The half-moon lent e
nough glow to the scene, and Elisha blew out the lantern, leaving it inside the passage. He spread his senses and cast a deflection that blossomed from his talismans. He took a moment to re-orient himself and started walking toward the south-east. After a time, he heard faint shouting behind him, orders to search again, most likely, and he prayed that Jacob’s relationship with the archbishop would protect the Jew and his family.
The vast bulk of the gate rose up at last, with the rounded lobes that Jacob described, their tall arches open to the night beyond. It took some fumbling to find the iron grate, and when he did, he missed a step and slithered inside, recovering his balance. Then he reached up to pull the grate closed behind him. He stepped away into darkness, attuning himself as he walked into the dank tunnel, feeling the space that opened at the branchings, then finding the one to lead him out. The bricks closed in to either side, and, just as he feared Jacob had sent him astray, he reached a tumble of rubble with a gap at the top and clambered out to freedom.
Chapter 8
A few days found Elisha riding swiftly toward Heidelberg on one of Charles’s messenger’s best horses. It had been a simple matter to rouse a stable boy and impress him with the imperial seal on a document neither of them could read. He rode cloaked in death, borrowing strength from every shade that rose up in his vision, as he had when he crossed England after saving Thomas and realizing Alfleda was still alive, and in danger. The shades here were not so thick as at home, perhaps because the hills and dense forest did not lend themselves to battles, but they were enough to hide him and to let him breathe in his power, staying alert. He slept only when he could find a grave to lie upon, to conceal him from notice, and every time, it troubled him to rest upon the dead.
Elisha dreamed of mancers: his hands impaled by a dagger as Morag prepared to flay his king, Elisha rising from his grave to find himself rooted by the dread power of Chanterelle’s death, the Archbishop of Canterbury wearing Rosalynn’s bloody skin, the stone table set with chains where Elisha claimed the right to kill Thomas in a ruse to set him free. Himself, hand laid upon the brow of King Hugh, withering him to dust. He dreamed of mancers emerging from the Valley into peaceful churches, seizing desolati who had no magic to defend them, torturing and killing, using their remains to seed a new destination where they could strike again, faster than anyone’s power to strike back. His own horse—fast though she was—could never outrace them. He woke again, gasping, feeling the spike through his hands, tasting the earth of his own grave, mingled with the ashes of his friends. Sometimes, he pressed a lock of Thomas’s hair between his palms and took comfort from its warmth. Sometimes, in the depths of a strange forest, that was not enough.
When he reached Heidelberg and left his horse outside, he passed over bridges and through gates, among the tradesmen and other visitors, and took the long trudge up toward a vast castle of red stone. Guards examined his papers at the gate, then summoned a man in a tabard bearing the emperor’s arms—a steward of some sort—who examined Elisha, his hawkish features focused and unfriendly, especially as he noted Elisha’s mismatched eyes. “You are the personal physician to King Thomas of England?”
“Aye, sir.” Like the guards at the gate, this man’s presence echoed with fragments of shades—not the thick darkness of a mancer, but rather the association with death that any fighting man might have. Elisha blinked them away.
“And you are carrying a letter from this king to his Majesty Ludwig, the emperor of the Romans? Fine. Give it to me, and you may go.”
“Sir, I am commanded to give it to the emperor and no other.” The hawkish man circled him, and Elisha resisted the urge to turn about in order to match his gaze.
“Well. I shall inform his Majesty that such a communication has been noted. You may go.”
Elisha’s fists clenched, and he eased them loose again. “I have come a very long way for this meeting, sir. Is there—”
“No. There is not. If you wish, you may take lodgings in town and inform us of your whereabouts. It may be that his Majesty’s orders shall change.” The man pivoted on one heel to go.
“Wait a minute—his orders?”
The steward walked away, allowing the guards to gesture Elisha back the way he had come.
“Wait! For the love of God,” Elisha shouted after him, following a few steps until two pikes swung down with a clang to bar his way. “This is none of my doing—whatever the problem. At least give me something to tell the king.”
The steward straightened his narrow shoulders, his feet coming together with a click. He twisted his neck, giving Elisha the benefit of his hard profile. “For two years, there has been no word from England. Not since the deaths of the princesses. His Majesty has no wish to acknowledge a king so lofty that he does not stoop to answer the pleas of a grieving father. Now. You may go!” His head snapped forward again and he stalked on.
Not since their deaths? It was unlike Thomas to ignore another man’s pain, even in the depths of his own. Deaths! Elisha caught hold of the pikes, pinning them together to lean past. “Alfleda’s not dead!” Elisha cried after the retreating steward. “She’s alive.”
The man stopped in mid-step and swung about, eyes wide. “Alfleda? The little princess?” He waved his hands to clear the guards from Elisha’s path and came back to meet him, hands outstretched. “She is alive.” He clapped his hands to his face. “Praise the Lord, and what shall I do?” Then light broke over his face, and he nearly laughed. “Come with me and tell me as we walk.”
They moved into the open yard of the castle, hurrying toward the keep up a slope of red cobbles.
“The bandits who attacked Thomas’s hunting lodge were hired men, starting a plot to disinherit him in favor of Alaric. Princess Anna fought them as best she could, although she lost her battle, but they took Alfleda away with them and brought her to a convent to be hidden.”
“Villains!” spat the steward, then waved his hand, already walking so quickly Elisha half-ran to keep up with him. “What else?”
“I found evidence that she had not been killed, and was able to track her to the convent. The—villains—tried to stop me taking her, but we escaped with the help of some of the nuns, and I returned her to her father in London.” For a moment, the memory of Thomas’s joy, the glow of his brilliant blue eyes and the heat of his gratitude flooded Elisha’s heart. “I assure you, sir, he would not have denied your master any news to ease his grief. It was the traitor Alaric who stood in the way, I’m sure of it.”
“Hmm.” The steward trotted upstairs, and Elisha followed breathlessly. “Wait here a moment—I’ll see what can be done.”
Elisha nodded, catching his breath enough to say, “Thank you,” then the steward hurried away, leaving Elisha in a chamber furnished with a few couches and tables, and a hearth tended by a slight young woman who watched him sidelong.
After a while, Elisha sat, choosing a plain bench. He longed for a drink or a meal, his stomach growling as he recalled the regal welcome extended to him by the rival emperor. At last, voices approached down the corridor and Elisha rose stiffly, his days of riding and nights of visions settling into his bones as he waited. A pair of pages scurried in, holding wide the doors for the party that followed: the steward, a black-robed monk, and a few soldiers.
At the back of this procession came an older man with a woman’s hand draped upon his arm, his eyes already narrowed, her gown filling out with her pregnant belly. She walked as one careful and heavy with child, her face weary but only a few years older than Elisha himself. Clearly, she was not also the mother of Anna, Thomas’s first wife. She watched him impassively as they approached, then lowered herself onto the bench he had just vacated as Elisha knelt to the emperor.
His face hard-lined, his curly hair tangling over his shoulders, the emperor stared down at him. “My man Harald tells me you claim that my granddaughter is alive. Tell me again.” He spoke German, but with a thick
, unusual accent so that Elisha gave thanks for the depth of his attunement that allowed him to follow the sense of what was said.
Remaining on his knees, watching the emperor’s face, Elisha repeated the story he had told the steward, but Ludwig’s frown only deepened. “What you say makes no sense,” the emperor growled. “William! Come, listen to this man and say if you find him to be a liar.”
The monk emerged from the emperor’s shadow, his tonsure flecked with age spots, his eyes troubled. “So you are my countryman who brings so much difficulty,” the old monk sighed, in English.
Elisha took a moment to master his frustration, his relief at hearing his native tongue extinguished by the cold words it spoke. His extended senses noted the animosity of the whole gathering, the serving woman alone feeling kindly toward him, though she stood with a pitcher of water and did not approach. At least none of them had the sinister presence of mancers. “Brother, if this is true, I do not mean it so. My king sends me here with tidings and warnings both, and I do not understand why this court treats me with disdain.”
“The reasons, sir, are several. Most recently, that you stopped first to visit with the upstart who claims the imperial crown. Prior to that, your king failed to answer the letters of the emperor, to whom he owes a filial duty, if not one of honor. For the emperor himself, he worries over the tidings from England already—without your person here to intrude upon his own problems.”
“I went to Trier because I was told that the emperor was in residence—the upstart flies the emperor’s banner in expectation of his arrival, and probably to draw in travelers like me.” The upstart, on the other hand, was charming, interested, immediately seeking advantage for both parties. Pity he allied himself with necromancers. If Elisha had the chance to separate him from his bad advisors . . . Elisha swallowed his unruly thoughts. He found no mancers here, though he expected they would be on the watch for him in Heidelberg. For Thomas’s sake, he tried to view Emperor Ludwig with patience, as a man first grieving, then ignored; a man beset as Brother William had said, with his own problems. “I have letters from King Thomas to the emperor.”
Elisha Mancer Page 6
